


Will You Come With Me?

by unkissed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Discrimination, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2353217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Albus has a very important question to ask Scorpius.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will You Come With Me?

**Author's Note:**

> Gratitude and dedications go out to ColorfulStabwound and a certain Scorpius who loves to dance. Yes, those are my cheesy song lyrics, and yes, I can hear the melody in my head. The world needs more gay rock stars.

When you and Scorpius decided he’d come with you on the second half of your tour with The White Lies, it was a moment you wouldn’t forget – it would change your life in ways you hadn’t known at the time.  When he kissed you, he tasted of the sweet promise of your future together and it made you realize that this was how it was meant to be.  You and Scorpius were supposed to be together – it was as inherent as a law of nature. 

Those few months prior, when you had tried to go against the natural order of the universe, had not exactly been torture – you were living your rock star dreams, and your busy tour schedule forced you to cope with separation.  But it was painful.  Every time the whirlwind of performances and recording and publicity and parties and interviews stopped, it hit you hard – Scorpius wasn’t there to share it with you.  And you missed your other half so horribly that you felt like an amputee. 

There were always boys hanging around that would have helped you forget that you loved somebody, had you let them.  And there were nights that you came crashing down so brutally hard from that _stage-high_ after gigs that you indulged a fanboy or two in a futile attempt at filling the void in your life where Scorpius should be.  In true rock star style, much to your own disgust and shame, you can’t even remember the name of the first boy you slept with who wasn’t Scorpius.  You’d experienced the highest of highs of your life on tour, and the lowest of lows.  It was a lot for a sixteen-year-old to take.

While you were gone, life went on – you were sure of that, not that you were vain enough to think life would stop.  Letters kept you connected to Scorpius and to your family.  But this gave you little comfort because you were constantly made aware of everything you were missing. 

You’d missed Scorpius’ seventeenth birthday in September – the first birthday you’d ever missed since you became friends.  It was a big deal in his family, since he was coming of age and the torch of carrying the Malfoy name had been passed to him.  You were in Tokyo for your own seventeenth birthday in November, so you couldn’t even celebrate it with the people who mattered to you the most – it would be mashed in with a collection of celebrations the week you went home for Christmas, including Jamie’s birthday and Grandad’s retirement party.  You missed the Apparition Licensing Test, and you missed it when Scorpius passed his test brilliantly.  You missed Jamie’s first game as a professional Quidditch chaser.  You missed Lily performing her first solo in the Hogwarts Frog and Vocal Choir.  You could try to make it up to all of them.  But you’d never make up those memories.

The memories you do have, you value like gold.  And the particularly special ones, you turn into songs.  Perhaps it was fate, or just the way Scorpius had always managed to alter your life in wonderful ways, that the memory of Scorpius’ kiss would catapult you into superstardom.

 

~@~

 

You were unprepared for how _“Will You Come With Me”_ turned your name into one that millions of muggles know – just like Scorpius had predicted when you first met him at Hogwarts.  Being famous by virtue of your parents’ role in Wizarding history couldn’t compare – that was the sort of fame you rather wanted to escape.  Even the internet pseudo-fame you garnered on YouTube or the minor international fame you achieved going on tour as the opening act for the biggest pop-punk band in the country couldn’t compare - because, let’s face it, until your big hit, most of your fans became your fans the night they saw you for the first time at the Oh You Handsome Devils concert.

While on tour with them, you broke contract with the little indie label that signed you at sixteen because a major label offered you a huge recording and distribution deal that your band couldn’t refuse.  And to meet their demands, you had to record while on the road.  They wanted a single from you before your first album came out.  You gave them “Will You Come With Me”.  The week it was released in February, you heard yourself on the radio for the first time while backstage in Los Angeles, and it was only appropriate that you got to share that moment with Scorpius, jumping on the tattered greenroom sofa the way you two used to jump on the beds in the Slytherin dorms.

A year later found you touring arenas around the world again, but as a headliner.  This time, you didn’t even have to ask Scorpius to come with you – it was a given.  As the end of tour approached, you realized that you’d be going home, really going home, for the first time in two years.  You couldn’t imagine picking up life from where you left it at sixteen.  You’d traveled the world twice over and it seemed silly to go back to Hogwarts or live in your parent’s house.  But you didn’t know what you were going to do with yourself.  The only thing that was certain was that you wanted Scorpius to come with you, no matter where life would take you next.

 

~@~

 

The last show on tour is at the O2 Arena in London.  Performing here is a dream-come-true.  When you sound check and see the enormous empty arena that will be filled with twenty thousand people all for _you,_ you actually cry real tears and thank the gods for your good fortune.  Your family and friends will all be here to share your crowning achievement with you.  You even put Scorpius’ parents and his uncle Theo on the guest list, though you doubt they’ll show up.  You don’t feel the pressure of performing in front of the only critics that matter to you, but you do feel butterflies in your stomach.  Those butterflies are there for entirely different reasons than wanting to show your loved-ones that your two-year absence had been worth it – you are actually thrilled for the opportunity. 

You make sure Scorpius is in the VIP section of the audience normally reserved for uberfans and industry reps. You want to be able to make eye contact with him.  You want to see him smiling proudly at you and singing along with the words that he inspired.  You want Scorpius as close as possible to share this moment with him, not way up in the private skybox with your family.

It is expected that The White Lies will close the show with an encore, as you always do, and tonight you’re performing your big hit as the grand finale of the Come With Me world tour.  You’re back stage after probably the best set you’ve ever performed in your life, gearing yourself up for this final moment.  You’re as nervous as you were the first time you performed for an audience that was larger than ten of your closest friends.  You think you might throw up, so you chug a bottle of water to stave off the nausea.  Connor, your bassist, recognizes that you need some liquid confidence and offers you a swig from his whiskey bottle - you enthusiastically take it.  The audience’s cheer for an encore grows to a fever pitch, which usually fuels your excitement to perform.  But tonight, it’s almost too much pressure because you know what’s coming next. 

 

The lights come back up on stage, glittering like a million twinkling stars.  The crowd roars as you run back to your microphone stand and switch on the wireless transmitter for your electric guitar.  You give Wendy Darling (all good guitars have names) a loving pat and switch her on.  You take a deep cleansing breath, find Scorpius in the audience to anchor you, and then shout into the microphone with a fist in the air.

“Do you want it one more time, London?”  Your voice reverberates through the arena and there is nothing like the thrill of your voice filling a room that big.

The crowd screams their enthusiastic assent.  And because you’re an insufferable ham, you toy with them.  “I don’t think you _really_ want it. Show me how badly you want it, London!”  And the crowd obliges you with incredible screams that make you soar.  You glance at Scorpius and he’s smirking amusedly.

You play a single, sustained, crunchy guitar chord and shout, “Will you come with me one last time, London?”  The innuendo never ceases to make you giggle inside, especially when you spot a fan’s homemade sign that reads, _Make Me Come With You Albie_.

The audience cheers.  You know they’ve been waiting all night for you to play this song.  And you’d been getting progressively tense through the whole show, waiting to play it.  It’s an upbeat song with a driving rhythm, cocky guitar riffs, and cheeky, romantic lyrics.  Everybody knows the words and you stop singing at just the right catchy hooks for the audience to take over for you. You’re having so much fun, you forget for a few blissful moments that something huge is about to happen.  And when that moment is upon you, you almost lose your resolve.

You’ve prepped the rest of the band that you’d be extending the song, stretching it out after the guitar solo.  The drums keep up the thumping four-four beat while the bass keeps up the melodic groove.  The keyboards and the guitars stop in favor of you and Jamaal clapping along with the beat, your arms raised, urging the audience to follow suit.  Of course, they do.  Even when you stop clapping and pull your microphone from the stand, Jamaal makes sure the audience keeps going.

You climb down off the stage into the buffer zone and the security guards are quick to descend upon you, protecting you like you’re the bloody Queen of England.  You shoo them away and try not to cause too much of a melee when you shake hands with the fans in the front row and speak into your wireless microphone – you still have your _stage voice_ on because the bass and the beat keep your showmanship going.

“Thank you for welcoming us home, London!  You’ve been brilliant tonight.  I want you to keep putting your hands together for The White Lies.  Keep putting your hands together for my mum and dad and brother and sister up there in the skybox!”  You point up to the top of the arena and the crowd cheers.  You make your way to the VIP section at the right of the stage and your heart beats faster than the rhythm of the song.  Scorpius’ cheeks flush with color when you lock eyes with him and approach.

“Ladies and gentlemen, keep putting your hands together – There is somebody I want to introduce you to.” 

Scorpius’ brow quirks sharply as if to say, _don’t you dare._   You want to pinch him, he’s so adorable.

You are impishly delighted that you are about to give your publicist a heart attack.

 

 

~@~

 

Hiring Miranda Cortez was the one demand your parents placed upon you when you embarked on your headlining tour with The White Lies.  She was your public relations manager and your unspoken chaperone.  As a muggle-born wizard, and former PR agent for the Holyhead Harpies when your mother played for them, she was a natural choice.  Miranda could understand, more than a muggle publicist, the importance of keeping certain aspects of your life out of the media – not just to protect your personal privacy, but to uphold the Statute of Secrecy, because not even your bandmates know you’re a wizard.

She was easy-going and hardly an authority figure, and you didn’t mind having her around all the time.  It became apparent to her, pretty early on, that Scorpius was more than your personal assistant. 

“It’s PR suicide,” she told you in a meeting that was much too formal for your liking.  You hated that both your tour manager and record company rep were there, but Scorpius wasn’t permitted.  “The world absolutely can not know you're gay.  Your ticket sales and music sales will plummet.  I wouldn’t be surprised if you were dropped by Polydor.”   She and Nigel from the record company exchanged sad, knowing glances.

You stood up from the table and shouted, unable to keep from being indignant, “This is bollocks!  It’s discrimination!”

Nigel spoke next, and it was beginning to feel like they were ganging up on you.  “It is not at all discrimination.  I fancy men as much as the next poofter.  Miranda is right, Albie.  Being out will kill your career.  It’s been proven time and time again.  Look at Ricky Martin.”

“Ricky who?” you asked, but knew you were falling into their lead-in.

“Exactly,” said Nigel.

“Nobody has anything against you being gay, Albus.  But being openly gay will dramatically narrow your fanbase to a small niche.  You will alienate the thousands of teenage girls who are buying your concert tickets and your music and affording you the privilege of going on tour.”

Holden, your tour manager, laid it out for you bluntly.  “If you can’t fill the seats, you lose the shows, your tour gets cut.  Nobody will book your band again.  You’re finished.”

You slumped back down to your chair, feeling small, crushed, and defeated.  After a long, tense silence, you muttered weakly over pouting lips, “I’d still get to keep Scorpius as my PA, though, right?”

Miranda nodded, “Of course.  But if anybody asks, he’s just a friend.  And if you’re asked about who you’re dating, you keep it vague.  _I’ve got somebody special._   If they ask you who, you say you don’t kiss and tell.”

You acquiesced because you couldn’t let down the rest of the band.  It wasn’t just your rock star dream; it was theirs too. 

Scorpius was not pleased being your dirty little secret.  He hated, perhaps more than you did, that you couldn’t be affectionate in public.  It’s bullshit, he said – you were down each other’s throats in public when you were nobody, and now that you’re somebody, he couldn’t touch you.

It made touring less enjoyable than it could’ve been, and it made you feel like you were betraying both Scorpius and your own outspoken sense of self.  You have never in your entire life hidden your affection for Scorpius or have ever been ashamed of your sexuality.  And it killed you to step into the closet that you have never once set foot in before.

But perhaps keeping your relationship with Scorpius a secret had its small merits.  Not touching each other for hours on end made nights in your hotel room a frenzied affair of heated kissing and lots and lots of touching.  And, of course, amazing sex.  While you were out and about, his clandestine flirting, however subtle, was enough to give you public hard-ons.  Miranda kept Scorpius out of the limelight, which kept his parents happy, and kept him on tour with you.  She was also great about magically erasing all paparazzi photos of you and Scorpius getting too cozy – you never had to worry about negative media attention.  She never made you lie too badly – never made you put on a fake heterosexual façade, but she was great about spinning things to keep them vague. 

On the last night of tour you bought Miranda a gift – it was a silver self-inking quill.  It was a gesture of your thanks for upholding your integrity while keeping your private life private.  It was also sort of a bribe, because you knew she’d want to kill you after tonight’s show.

 

~@~

 

You pull Scorpius over the barricade with the help of a security guard and drag him on stage.  He’s always been a bit of an attention whore, but to have twenty thousand pairs of eyes on him must be incredibly overwhelming.  He’s got a death grip on your hand and he’s looking at you with a nervous smile.  The drum beat is still going, but the clapping has quieted down to a rhythmic din and you feel the anticipation of the audience like a weight pressing down on your chest.

You feel a little guilty for making a show of this, and you’re speaking more to the audience than to Scorpius when you say, “This is Scorpius Malfoy.  Yes, that’s his real name, and yes, he is as badass as his name suggests.  He has been my best friend for ages and I love him very much.”

There are some cheers and whistles, but it’s getting eerily quiet for a rock show, aside from the constant beat of the drum.  The audience is hanging on to every word, wondering what sort of stunt you’re going to pull.

You turn to Scorpius.  Your back is to the audience, and it feels like there are twenty thousand cheerleaders behind you.  Your eyes meet his, and he looks torn between wanting to kill you and wanting to kiss you and wanting to die of embarrassment.

Because it’s the biggest show of your life, and because there are thousands of people watching, and because you want the entire world to hear your words, you use your stage voice.  You know it might not be as romantic or as personal, but you hope Scorpius will understand.

 

“I have one question for you Scorpius,” you say to him, and then point at Daniel on the drums, without letting your eyes move away from the silver-blue ones staring back at your with so much love, “Danny boy, bring us home!” 

The constant four-four beat deviates from its cardiac rhythm with a crash of cymbals and a roll of toms and snare drums.  Connor and Jamaal come in perfectly on cue with the bass and synthesizer, and you come roaring in with the guitar.  You’re shoulder-to-shoulder with Scorpius when you sing the song.  And he sings it too as if he’d always been in the band.

 

_Will you come with me?_

_Into the city tonight?_

_Will you come with me?_

_Because it wouldn’t feel right_

_Without you, baby, by my side_

_Riding this feeling like we’re riding the tide_

_The opportunities - endless_

_the possibilities,_

_wide as the sea_

_So baby will you come with me?_

 

The song always ends with the rest of the music dropping out and just you repeating the chorus.  You pluck the microphone from the stand, turn to Scorpius, and get down on one knee, serenading him with the words you wrote for him.  It’s no longer for the amusement of the audience.  It’s all for Scorpius.  You look up at him and he’s the only one who’s watching you now, regardless of the arena-full of people.

 

_Will you come with me?_

_Into the city tonight?_

_Will you come with me?_

_Because it wouldn’t feel right_

_Without you, baby, by my side_

_Riding this feeling like we’re riding the tide_

_The opportunities - endless_

_the possibilities,_

_wide as the sea_

_So Scorpius, will you marry me?_

Scorpius’ jaw drops and his eyes go wide with surprise.  You kiss the shock right off his mouth.  You can’t hear the roar of the crowd over the thumping of your heart.  You speak into Scorpius’ ear, “You don’t have to answer now.” 

When you turn to face the audience with your arms around Scorpius, you don’t regret a thing.  If you’ve just alienated half your fanbase, you can’t tell, because it seems like the entire arena is applauding your love.

It is only natural that Scorpius takes the final bow with you at the end of the show.  He is a part of you.  A part of your music.  And if anyone deserves the accolades of thousands, it is your muse.

 

~@~

 

You wake up in a hotel room in Paris and everything hurts.  That’s because the day before, Scorpius had convinced you to go to a dance workshop.  It didn’t help that you had sex twice and played a gig at L’Olympia all in the same day.

You roll over with a sleepy, content groan and stretch before curling your arms around Scorpius, who is already awake and writing a letter on the hotel stationery in bed.

“I had the craziest dream,” you say, nuzzling into Scorpius’ shoulder.  Your voice is still ragged from the night before. Touring as the opening act for Oh You Handsome Devils is killing your vocal chords, but damn, is it fun.

“Oh?” Scorpius puts down the pad of paper and drops a kiss on your forehead.  “Was I in it?”

You chuckle softly. “Aren’t you always?”

Ever since you met Scorpius, the same themes have popped up in your dreams - twinkling stars, silver-blue eyes, and fame. 

Scorpius purrs, “Was it a sexy dream?”

“Sort of. I guess.”  It’s a bit fuzzy, but some things stand out clearly. “I dreamt the words to a song. I really need to write it down before I forget.”

“Tell me. I’ll write them down.” Scorpius takes up the pad and pen as you dictate.

“Will you come with me…,” you begin.

“Hey, this sounds familiar,” he remarks and you both giggle, remembering how Scorpius had said those exact words to you yesterday when he asked you about taking that crazy dance workshop. 

“Into the city tonight… Will you come with me… Because it wouldn’t feel right… without you, baby, by my side… riding this feeling like we’re riding the tide.” It is so clear to you now and you can even hear the melody in your head.  And then other details of the dream start to come into focus. You bury your face into Scorpius’ side and blush hard.  “Oh my gods, I was famous.  Ridiculously famous. Like, playing the O2 arena famous.”

Scorpius stops writing. “Are you still talking about the words to the song?  Because the last few lines don’t really go with the first few lines.”

You giggle. “No, I dreamt I was hugely famous and I asked you this crazy question while I was performing in front of thousands of people.”

“You asked me if I’d come with you?”

You remember that you’d asked him much more than that.  You’d asked Scorpius to come with you on a journey that would take your entire lifetime to complete.  As you bask in the bliss of that glorious dream and hum the melody of a song as it begins to come together in your head, you know that someday you really will ask Scorpius that question. Perhaps you won’t ask him in such a public way, and you should probably wait until you’re both a bit older, but you know it is what you want.  And there isn’t a doubt in your mind that Scorpius will say yes.

 


End file.
